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by shedrovemehere



Category: Professional Wrestling, 新日本プロレス | New Japan Pro-Wrestling
Genre: Kayfabe Compliant, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-01
Updated: 2017-05-01
Packaged: 2018-10-26 05:22:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,689
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10780425
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shedrovemehere/pseuds/shedrovemehere
Summary: Update: deathvalleydriver has sadly removed all their fic from AO3, although they are still here! I wish you could read the original, but I want to note that deathvalleydriver originally wrote the dialog and the basic scenario. Just wanna give credit where it's due!-----I loved deathvalleydriver's Golden Lovers fic a whole bunch. So well written, it reminded me of how well George RR Martin does POVs with a third-person narration, but manages to capture the personality and spirit of whoever the POV character is. Since it reminded me of George RR Martin, I got the idea to try something that I'd loved fromA Song of Ice and Fire: inA Feast For Crows, we see a conversation between Sam and Jon take place from Sam's point of view in Samwell I. InA Dance With Dragons, we see the very same conversation with the same exact dialog from Jon's point of view in Jon II. Both Jon and Sam know things they can't tell the other, and it's a really fascinating way to depict an important conversation. So I rewrote this fic, using the same dialog, from Kota's point of view. I hope it lives up to the original!Also: this is my very first AO3 post, so if there are conventions I don't know about or whatever, please let me know.





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**Author's Note:**

> Update: deathvalleydriver has sadly removed all their fic from AO3, although they are still here! I wish you could read the original, but I want to note that deathvalleydriver originally wrote the dialog and the basic scenario. Just wanna give credit where it's due! 
> 
> \-----
> 
> I loved deathvalleydriver's Golden Lovers fic a whole bunch. So well written, it reminded me of how well George RR Martin does POVs with a third-person narration, but manages to capture the personality and spirit of whoever the POV character is. Since it reminded me of George RR Martin, I got the idea to try something that I'd loved from _A Song of Ice and Fire_ : in _A Feast For Crows_ , we see a conversation between Sam and Jon take place from Sam's point of view in Samwell I. In _A Dance With Dragons_ , we see the very same conversation with the same exact dialog from Jon's point of view in Jon II. Both Jon and Sam know things they can't tell the other, and it's a really fascinating way to depict an important conversation. So I rewrote this fic, using the same dialog, from Kota's point of view. I hope it lives up to the original!
> 
> Also: this is my very first AO3 post, so if there are conventions I don't know about or whatever, please let me know.

* * *

 

 _Kenny-tan._ He’d been staring at that name at the top of blank text message for days.

“Are you okay?” he typed quickly, before almost as quickly deleting it. It sounded a little too worried. If he knew Kenny, seeming too concerned was a great way to ensure he’d ignore you. Kota sighed. “Just checking on you ^-^” he typed, before deleting that one in frustration too. “Still awake?” Kota wondered briefly if that was too flirty before deciding it was, and deleting it. He scrunched up his face in resignation, looking at the still-blank message, knowing what he had to do.

He’d hoped he would be able to wait a little longer before dealing with this. He hadn’t been back from the US that long, and his head was still swimming with jet lag, too little sleep, and self-doubt. At least he didn’t need much wherewithal to get where he was headed; he’d walked this route through one of the quieter neighborhoods of Tokyo hundreds of times.

After that match with AJ, going to the US was supposed to clear his head, remind him why he loved wrestling. It didn’t. And if he was being really honest with himself (not that he had much choice after so little sleep), he’d never really fully believed that it would, just desperately hoped. Because it wasn’t that he lost that bothered him—as grateful as he was for his success, he knew he was _really fucking good_. It was _how_ he'd lost that stung. Kenny, who once knew every secret, every fear, every hope, every insecurity of his. Kenny, who never seemed to care who saw him bury his face in Kota’s collarbone for comfort after a hard loss. Kenny who never could quite believe he deserved Kota, had finally let it sabotage whatever relationship they had left, to prove (in his own mind) once and for all that Kota had always been the better of them.

He’d cost Kota the belt—finally an undeniable act of betrayal after Kota had stubbornly refused to acknowledge Kenny's passive-aggressive coldness for months. When Kenny jumped onto the apron, Kota had tried to look annoyed, but later when he finally saw the replay, he saw his expression simply shatter into helpless hurt. It wasn’t the belt he was mourning. The next day he'd hardly felt the bruises over the grief.

And it had gotten even harder after _the match_. Kota still couldn’t bring himself to watch the whole thing, but he’d seen some of the most impressive highlights. It was every bit as incredible as everyone said, not that he’d ever doubted Kenny could do it, and _would_ do it. Kota had always admired Kenny for his ability to _keep going, keep working, keep fighting, never give up_ until he was the best. Kota’s talent was preternatural, and Kenny never let him forget how jealous he was of that. But when you are _just that good_ , having to work hard for something doesn’t come naturally. He hoped Kenny could see that side of it now, now that he’d just fought _The Best Match In History_.

Since his match with AJ, Kota made sure people heard the venom in his voice when anyone mentioned Kenny. After a while, even Naito and Shinsuke had stopped ribbing him about it—it probably lost the fun when Kota just withered every time. But _that match_ had madeKenny’s name unavoidable, which made Kota miserable. Shinsuke, whom he could  _not_ bullshit about anything ever, had woken up at 5am Orlando time just to call and check on him at a decent Tokyo time. TJ sent a suspiciously-timed “just to say hi!” email. Ryuske, who seemed to think they were closer than they actually were, had texted him about Kenny's very conspicuous Golden Triangle Moonsault. Kota didn’t respond— he wanted to be steely about it, just a coincidence—but he was never quite able to convince _himself_ of that. He avoided the question, but everyone _else_ had seemed to see Kenny's message to him, in front of the world, loud and clear— _I miss you. You should be here_. In case they'd missed it at the G1. Even the commentators had mentioned-but-not-mentioned Kota. _Kenny, you asshole._

Kota hadn't bothered to take the key off his keychain (just like not erasing the _-tan_ after Kenny’s name in his phone), mostly because the act of removing it felt bad. He certainly didn’t think he’d ever be _using_ the key again, yet now, here he was, opening a familiar door, hearing that familiar rattle of the handle. It felt oddly normal and anticlimactic—he’d expected more somehow, after a year and a half. But the little kitchen looked and smelled just the same, same entertainment center where nothing was organized except the video games. Same couch, with Kenny’s same comforter he’d always had. Same tangle of silver-blonde hair peeking out from the comforter-couch-cocoon, which now was groaning at the sound of someone entering the apartment. Kota felt like he was stepping back into a life he’d been forced out of. He suddenly felt sick and stupid for coming here. Kenny always gave him so much shit about how he loved taking dumb risks, but he liked the hilarious kind where you might break your neck doing a Phoenix Splash off a vending machine, not the gut-wrenching kind where you might have to say goodbye forever. At least he had evidence that necks could heal.

"Go away.” A muffled voice came from inside the cocoon. "Matt. Or Nick. Whichever of you it is, I don't care. Just go away. I already told you I'm not going out." Kota wanted to joke about being offended (he’d never made much of a secret of his distaste for the Bucks), but he stayed quiet. He didn’t quite know what to say yet; he hadn’t really planned too much further than this. Without really thinking, he softly reached for the little tuft of hair, and his chest felt like it would crack open when he gently ran his hand through it. Such a familiar feeling. As much as he bitterly resented Kenny in that moment for still having that beautifully wild hair, he was also comforted bone-deep by the locks he used to absent-mindedly twirl between his fingers. _Goddammit, Kenny._

Kenny didn’t budge. Kota knew it wouldn’t be so easy, but he’d kinda hoped that would work anyway. He pulled his hand back and cleared a spot on the coffee table to sit facing Kenny-lump. He had time to wait. He was still trying to find words to explain why on earth he was here, when Kenny pulled back the covers, looked at him with a mixture of resignation, exasperation, and shame, and then covered his face again, groaning louder than before. Kota again felt that pang of stupid, small, unwanted—his heart plunged into his stomach as it occurred to him he may have read too far into the signals he had been so sure Kenny was sending. He’d seen what he wanted to see, as much as he denied to even himself that he’d wanted to see signs that Kenny still loved him. _Perfect_ , the same mistake he always made: allowing himself to hope, being too trusting, too optimistic. Moonsaults off second-story balconies were much safer; _at least you were there to catch me_. Kenny had rejected him very very plainly, in front of the whole world, and he’d still come here to sit on his coffee table like a stupid puppy.

"Go away,” the couch-lump said again, and even though Kota had just been berating himself for searching too hard for signs Kenny still cared, that “go away” sounded _much_  different from the “go away” he’d heard before Kenny learned who’d shown up. Plus, he’d already come this far. "Kenny,” he began, though he truly did not know where he was going after that.

Kenny sighed and lowered his blanket. He looked like hell—greasy hair stuck to his face, pale, dehydrated. But Kota could not help studying his face, once the most familiar face in the world to him. As alien as Kenny looked, Kota would have recognized him anywhere, in any lifetime. He looked older, Kota thought, though how long had it been? How much older did _he_ look? He winced involuntarily at the memory of how he’d once planned to watch this face across from him grow old, and how much they’d already missed.

Kenny’s expression softened. "I must have really hit my head hard if I'm imagining _you're_ here,” he mumbled in feigned effortlessness.

Kota couldn’t help but smile, not at the joke, but at his apparently-not-lost ability to sense Kenny’s bullshit immediately. "You're not imagining. But you did hit your head."

"If Matt and Nick sent you here, it's no use."

 _They’re clearly not as stupid as I am. Maybe I came because I care about you, you ass._ "Matt and Nick didn't send me."

"You came on your own?” Kenny seemed genuinely puzzled by this. It _would_ be just like him to have somehow convinced himself that Kota despised him, which Kota often wished he _could_. It would have made things a lot easier. He certainly wouldn’t be sitting on this coffee table trying to help someone who’d repeatedly shown him that _gold_ mattered far more than _Golden_. "Oh, I get it. To rub it in? Well go ahead, then, Kota. I probably deserve it."

Kota tried to choose his words carefully. "No, Kenny-" honestly, he probably _did_ deserve it, but not now.

"This is payback for that Styles match, isn't it? I-"

" _Kenny_." Kota held up his hands. This wasn’t time to talk about _that_.

"So why are you here, then?” Kenny was quieter now, almost scared sounding.

 _Because you fucking need me. Because I love you. Because I’m trying to find a way to forgive you. Because I’ve been to the other side of the world to figure out what’s next and I still can’t make anything make one bit of sense without you._ "I'm worried about you,” was all Kota managed.

"You're worried about me?” Kenny seemed honestly incredulous, as if Kota hadn’t confessed hundreds of times to being a complete sucker for the way only Kenny could make him laugh, for that perfect mischievous smile and eyes that sparkled even when everything was falling apart. Nothing could ever be all terrible when they were together. No matter how many times he’d told Kenny how important he was, Kenny’s own insecurities kept him safe, like armor, from ever _truly_ believing it, from ever having to fully accept that this man he adored loved him back. And it had cost Kota everything, including his pride.

" _You're_ worried about me?” Kenny asked again, and Kota asked _himself_ again whether he was making a huge mistake by being here. Kenny was still putting him on a pedestal, which had always deeply annoyed Kota, but felt almost poetic: after all, Kenny alone had the power to topple and shatter him. Kota felt anger flash in his cheeks, but chose his words carefully. "Ever since...Wrestle Kingdom. The match.” _I knew you must be devastated because winning is all that matters to you, and I’m the only one who knows what you walked away from to chase it._ "You haven't talked to anyone. Not really. Or gone anywhere. Or… you just disappeared, Kenny."

"And?"

 _And I had to see for myself if you really had become a coward who’d lay down and die at the first obstacle._ "I'm worried about you, Kenny,” _and apparently I still love you enough to rip open wounds for you._

"Why? We haven't spoken in over a year, Kota,” Kenny said haltingly, softly, as though saying it made real something he’d been avoiding.

Kota felt the anger flush his cheeks again—it had been pretty goddamn real for _him_ all those long months. _Whose fucking fault is that?_ , he’d wanted to say, but he could see the weight of the answer already on Kenny’s shoulders, so he said, simply, “it's not like you."

Kenny sighed. "Maybe I just don't want to see anyone. Maybe I don't feel like it."

"But everyone is talking about you, Kenny. Isn't this what you wanted?” _Isn't this what you wanted instead of me?_ Kota had long nursed that wound, but was surprised to find himself also feeling deep despair _for_ Kenny. The part of Kota that still loved Kenny selflessly, fearlessly, recklessly—the part that would always be Kenny’s biggest fan—had hoped that at least it would be worth it to Kenny to have broken his heart. Seeing now, written plainly on Kenny’s face, that it hadn’t been, confirming what Kota suspected all along—that it _could never have been_ —didn’t feel triumphant as he’d fantasized it might. It just felt empty.

"Just go away, Kota. I don't want to talk about it.”

 _Too damn bad. I’ve had to hear about you nonstop._ "You have to get off the couch sometime, Kenny,” Kota insisted.

"Just go, Kota.”

Kota knew that tone. Kenny, _The Cleaner, leader of the illustrious Bullet Club_ , had spent much energy crafting his persona, erasing the sensitive nerdiness and substituting it with bitterly cutting humor. He normally reserved that tone for when the truth was too close to keep up his aloofness.

 _You think I don’t know how you work? I've got time to wait_. "Your hair is gross,” Kota said, looking with concern at Kenny’s scalp.

"What?"

"It's dirty," Kota said. "You need to wash it."

" _Sorry_ we can't all have perfect anime hair all the time,” Kenny said ruefully, with a darting glance to gauge Kota’s reaction. In another lifetime, the phrase "perfect anime hair" had been said with a gushing, endearingly dorky tone of first-crush-level awe. Kota’s hair had been one of Kenny’s most unabashed weaknesses, so much so that it felt too intimate, almost scandalous, to bring it up now.

"I'll have to wash it for you, if you don’t,” Kota challenged, quite seriously. He’d done it many times before, after matches when Kenny’s arms hurt too much to lift them above his head. That memory felt out of place in this reality; and now _he_ had made to reference something a bit too tender.

"I'll bite you," Kenny said, also quite seriously.

 _Are you flirting with me, you ass?_ Biting was… also something in their history. Without thinking, Kota raised his eyebrows suggestively, and he thought he saw Kenny trying not to smile for the briefest moment. He noticed again how natural it was to be with Kenny, how he made the same inside jokes and used the same mannerisms, despite his anger. And he knew Kenny too well—well enough to know that weak bravado meant Kenny felt scared and vulnerable and embarrassed, even though _he was the one who ruined it, goddamn it_. _Fine, Kenny. You win_. He went over to the TV and opened the glass-doored cabinet that contained Kenny’s most frequently played games. He switched the console on and sat down on Kenny’s outstretched legs, forcing Kenny to move.

"What are you doing?"

"Waiting for you to get off the couch."

"But why are you-"

 _Even if flirting doesn’t work, I know how to get you to talk to me..._ "I was getting bored."

"Do you even know how to play this game?"

“No. You could show me, if you like.”

"Whatever, Kota. Have fun.” Kenny petulantly threw the comforter over his head again.

Kota could only shrug; that ploy had been pretty obvious, but on so little sleep, it was the best he could do. Now it was just him and the game. Kota had always sucked at these games; he preferred to fight in real life—it was one of the only things he _knew_ he was good at. Kenny had tried teaching him to play, and it always felt like dark sorcery. Any game that involved rotating the joystick a quarter turn, or making your hands do a mirror-image of a move depending on which way your opponent is facing was lost on Kota. This time, though, he actually _did_ try to remember some of the enthusiastic lessons Kenny had given him a thousand years ago. _Fuck._ It still made no sense. “GAME OVER,” the game’s emcee boomed. Kota lost again. And again. And again. He was getting genuinely frustrated, but sometime during his fourth loss, he _did_ think of something else to try to get Kenny out of his funk. GAME OVER. He lost a fifth time.

"You're pressing the wrong buttons,” Kenny said, his frustration at watching someone play video games hideously finally getting the better of him.

"No, I'm not.” _I totally am_.

"Yes, you are. Look, it's not even that hard, you just have to-"

"This game is stupid.” _Lost again._ "GAME OVER,” the game’s emcee announced once more.

"It's not stupid, you're st-“ Kenny sat up, finally. "Give me the controller, I'll show you."

 _I believe you missed your chance to do this the easy way, blondie._ "No, I'm fine."

"No, you're not. Press X and the arrow button-"

"Which one-"

"The up one, of course-"

"It's not working-"

"Because that's _not the X_. C'mon, Kota-"

"Hey, let go-"

"-gimme-"

"-I'm trying to play-"

"-let me show you-" Kenny grabbed for the controller, and Kota, in an effort to keep it in his hand, lost his balance and fell backward onto the floor. With the controller held as far away from him as possible, with his other arm he pulled Kenny’s outstretched arm, bringing Kenny and his blanket tangle down on top of him. They narrowly missed the coffee table, but the movement sent papers fluttering and empty cans clattering to the floor. "GAME OVER"

Kota was pinned under Kenny, and mockingly groaned the same way Kenny had when he’d first entered the apartment. "Your games are stupid, Kenny,” Kota said as he slumped back down, remembering at the last second to be careful with the controller (it was no accident that Kenny kept them right next to his display of belts and awards).

"I told you, they're not stupid. You just...don't know how to play."

 _Oh, really? You didn’t even notice what game we were_ really _playing._ Kota finally allowed his smile to crack, and from there threw his head back in laughter.

"What?” Kenny was legitimately confused.

Kota pointed at him. "I got you off the couch.” Kenny looked down at the floor as though he hadn't noticed until then. "I guess I win, huh?” Kota grinned deviously. But Kenny didn’t laugh, or even smile. He looked oddly heartbroken and distant, as though Kota were behind glass and Kenny couldn’t reach him. _Whoops_ , Kota knew that look: _you_ always _win, it’s so damn easy for you, you're the Golden Star_. Kenny started to get up, and before Kota really realized what he was doing, he had wrapped his arms around Kenny's waist.

"Kota, what the f-"

" _Don't_ ,” Kota said, suddenly stern. "Don't get back on the couch.” _Come on Kenny, damn you, be the man I know you are. A man who doesn’t quit when stuff gets hard. A man who holds onto the fire in his heart. A man I can forgive._

"It's not that easy, Kota,” Kenny snapped.

" _Kenny_!” Kota’s frustration finally cut through his patience. "I don't...I don't understand, Kenny."

"I said-"

"But everyone loves you, Kenny. I don't understand why you're so- so-" _distant. Important to me still. Self-loathing. Broken_. “-depressed,” he finished. Kota watched a million poisonously self-deprecating answers enter Kenny’s mind.

But when Kenny finally answered, all he could manage was "I _lost_.” He sat down on the floor with his back against the couch.

“So?,” Kota offered, but he knew it was pointless. Kenny was a perfectionist, a hundred times harder on himself than his harshest critics could ever be. Even so, this Kenny who could no longer take even _a little_ pride in an expertly-fought match, this Kenny who _wasn't having fun anymore_ … that was new, and so unlike him. Kota sat down next to Kenny, the blanket still covering their legs.

"It doesn't matter how great the match was or how great everyone thinks I was - I still _lost_ , Kota.” Kenny’s voice wavered precariously on the word “lost.” He’d almost whispered the word “Kota.” Now he crumpled, leaning up against Kota, head on his shoulder, face buried in the crook of his neck, in Kota’s hair.

Kota was startled: Kenny’s breath on his collarbone was the only thing that felt like _home_ he’d experienced in longer than he could remember. Instinctively, Kota put his arm around Kenny’s shoulders, and rested his head on Kenny’s curls as he’d done so many times. He didn’t care that Kenny’s hair smelled or that he should be angry. He _had been_ so angry he hadn’t realized how his chest had ached for home. He didn’t want to think about the implications of that realization, but it was unmistakeable, it was as real as the rattle of the door handle and the soda cans on the floor; it was there in the room with them, and they both knew it. _Home_. "I lost, too,” Kota said quietly. He felt Kenny shiver when he repositioned his cheek to rest on Kenny’s forehead.

"What?"

"I lost. Over in America; the Cruiserweight Classic. I lost.”

Kenny made a little noise, and Kota felt Kenny’s head shaking back and forth under his cheek. "You threw it,” Kenny responded without a pause.

 _No. How?_ “What?,” Kota asked.

"You threw the match.” Kenny said calmly, beginning to chuckle in that smug-yet-endearing way of his. "Come on, did you seriously think you fooled me?"

 _You ass_. "Um...yes?"

"You may have convinced them, but not me, Kota."

Kota feigned offense, but Kenny was absolutely right. He’d been in TJ’s knee bar, knowing there was a big contract if he won. But it had taken the entire tournament for him to finally admit to himself that the US would _never_ be home, no matter how long he trained, how many fans he had, how much money he made. He’d beaten the others fairly effortlessly. TJ's knee bar was strong, and he wasn't sure whether he could have broken it if he'd tried, but he'd realized then—what a moment to realize it—that he dreaded winning far more than losing. And as much as he’d hated it, the second he tapped, his thoughts jumped to Kenny, as though Kenny had been there all along, leaning casually against a wall with that knowing smirk, patiently waiting to be given his due. "But I still could have lost if I hadn't thrown the match.” Kota had worried it was glaringly obvious to everyone, but no one really seemed to notice, and just treated it like a tough break. Evidently, everyone but Kenny. Tapping out had been essentially a love note to Kenny, and Kenny had received it, across oceans, through his wall of self-centered doubt.

Kenny shook his head dismissively. "TJ Perkins couldn't beat you on his best day. And you could easily beat him on your worst."

Kota knew he was right. "But it's still a loss, regardless," he tried anyway, not having a better plan.

"It's not the same."

"How? A loss is a loss." Even as he said it, he knew it was a lie. _Some losses send you to the bar or to the comfort of friends. Some send you to the hospital. And some losses send you across time zones and oceans and language barriers, as far away from the pain as you can possibly get._

"You _chose_ to lose, Kota. And I've lost before, it's just, this-“ Kenny looked like he was grasping desperately for strong enough words. "This is different. I did _everything_ , Kota; I put _everything_ into winning. And I lost.” Kenny let his head flop back down onto Kota's shoulder.

 _Some losses send you to the darkest places in your mind._ Kota pulled Kenny closer. He thought that he understood the word Kenny was making every effort to say without saying at the end of that sentence: _everything_. _I lost everything. I lost myself. I lost you_. Kota’s heart fluttered, not out of joy but terror. He’d trained himself to think that Kenny was done with him, even though something—that little piece of _Golden_ that would forever live inside him and make up some of the truest parts of who he was—constantly pulled at his sleeve. He forced it away; telling himself Kenny only cared about winning now. "But you beat everyone else to get there. Elgin, Naito..."

"But I still lost.” There it was again, the unsaid word: _everything. You. My everything._

"Okada is very good,” Kota said, still cautiously talking about losing _at wrestling_. "But he wasn't always. Tanahashi kicked his ass out of the building many times.” He paused for a moment. "You will beat him, Kenny.” He realized he felt this bone-deep. It was just _true_. Kenny was one of the best in the world. _The_ best, in Kota’s eyes, though Kenny would never believe that.

Kenny locked eyes with him, at first stunned, and then resolute, as if Kota had looked it up in a book, and confirmed a simple fact. He nodded, and laid his head back on Kota’s shoulder. Kota absent-mindedly played with the tag on the hip of the Kenny's sweatpants. "I missed you,” Kenny finally said, as though he didn’t deserve to feel it, all pretense gone from his voice.

Kota wanted to say so many things, but in the end just settled on the truest: "I missed you too.”

Kenny jerked his head up and stared at Kota. "Really?"

 _Don’t you dare make me do this._ "Did you think I came back just for the food?"

"But-" Kenny seemed to be searching for some way to convey the weight of the shame he felt. "I was so... _horrible_ , to you.” He spat those last words out.

Kota nodded. "You were,” he said simply.

"How can you still-"

 _Ugh, fine. You win, Kenny. You're going to make me say it first, like that stupid knee bar._ "I love you," Kota interrupted him, "more than I'm angry at you.” It was useless now to keep his guard up. "And, honestly, because I'm kind of stupid.” Kota hoped that would make Kenny smile. It didn’t. His face had frozen upon hearing _I love you_.

"But I-“ Kenny looked conflicted, like he wanted to blurt out all the stupid things he’d done.

"You're not a horrible person, Kenny. Just kind of... _very_...stupid. A lot.”

Kenny finally laughed, then.

"I missed you, Kenny," Kota said more seriously this time, maintaining eye contact. _You got me to tap out, see?_ He was starting to feel like a foolish puppy again.

Kenny looked like he was going to cry, or vomit, or leave. He looked grateful and terrified all at once. Kota studied Kenny’s face as his expressions changed rapidly.

Finally, with resolve, Kenny raised his palm to Kota’s cheek, pulling Kota’s lips toward his. Kenny kissed him at first softly and then, as he fully realized what he was doing, put his other hand on Kota’s other cheek, thumbs on Kota’s cheekbones, pressing their chests together and kissing him more desperately, as though a weight had been lifted, and with their lips together again he could finally breathe. Kota felt it too; at long last he knew he was where he belonged, and had always belonged. He opened his mouth into the kiss and thrust his hands into Kenny’s tangled, greasy hair, then made a show of wiping one of his hands on Kenny’s shirt. Kenny smiled broadly, and Kota’s lips hit teeth. His tongue tasted the tears of relief that had fallen onto Kenny's lips—his tears or Kenny's, though, he didn't know.

There would be so much to say, later, most of it unpleasant. There would be time to untangle. For now, snow started to coat the pavement outside, and Tokyo felt like home again.


End file.
